


The Things that Cells Hold

by red_savage



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Alternate Universe - Civil War, Angst, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-31
Updated: 2010-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-11 09:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_savage/pseuds/red_savage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During Civil War Steve has a visitor to his jail cell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things that Cells Hold

Steve Rogers sits in the brig of the SHIELD Helicarrier.

In his time, Steve has seen his share of jail cells both inside and out. This one is a little better; only because it is clean and tidy to the point of being lifelessly sterile. The bunk is molded plastic in a hideous shade of taupe with grey marbling and a thin green hospital pad. A beige floating shelf juts out of the wall near the bed to form a make-shift desk and a blue-grey plastic patio chair stands haphazardly underneath. The stainless steel head and sink finishes out the sparse accommodations, as there is nary a blanket, sheet or pillow in sight. A dull grey tray with half-eaten food sits near the slot on the cell door. The cold peas and carrots have lost their robust color from being overcooked into something that looks like the other dull geometric shapes that fills the sparse dull beige painted prison cell; but Steve eats it to quash down the hunger of his stomach like the soldier he is. Staring at the half-empty tray on the floor, he can't recall if the meal had tasted good or not as other matters weighs heavily on his mind. The dinged metal tray is nothing more than a convenient excuse to stare at; he doesn't care about the food, but he still gives a damn about himself, his friends and the general state of the world. The fact that he cares is something he can mentally clutch to, which means all hope is not lost.

There is one looming camera in the hallway which peers into his cell, but he knows there are others hidden about. Technology is cheaper, faster and more efficient than having a human guard out in the hallway (at least according to the bean counters who oversee SHIELD's budget). Technology and the SHRA allows squads of capekillers to patrol the streets like wolves looking for their next meal; however technology can be foiled. Technology has not quashed the resistance, despite everything. Technology can't keep him in this cell. Steve Rogers has made a decision to be here and technology does not have a damn thing to do with it.

Steve tries to think the situation through; everything that has happened over the last few months to see if he can get some perspective. When the time comes, Captain America has to be ready to fight, not with his fists; but with words. Strong stirring words which will be needed in the days to come. Sure elegant quotes from the likes of Benjamin Franklin, John Locke, and Thomas Jefferson will turn a few heads; but Steve feels the need to start framing rousing public statements and uplifting speeches. He sighs as the words of Samuel Adams drones in his head, 'A general dissolution of principles and manners will more surely overthrow the liberties of America than the whole force of the common enemy. While the people are virtuous they cannot be subdued; but when once they lose their virtue then will be ready to surrender their liberties to the first external or internal invader.' Steve then rubs his eyes and groans, "But how do you make them see that SHRA is really not safer and no better?" 'It's the illusion of safety, which is far, far worse -- no choice, no freedom, no say all because of fear.'

The lack of pen and paper is not a significant obstacle in the pursuit of provoking prose for the contented masses. Unfortunately what is coming to mind is straight forward fact, not ear-catching words; staring at the half-empty food tray isn't any more inspiring or helpful than looking at the bare dull walls of his cell. 'Surely they'll send someone in to take a statement or question me. Feels like I've been here days. Maybe three or four days? Must be part of their plan to wear me down. Nothing but the same silent guard who brings me food and water. Something should happen, soon. I know it. I have to be ready when the time comes.'

Steve glances up at the dull dingy grey ceiling where the lone ceiling fixture appears to cast greenish shadows. 'I may spend a good many years in a cell like this. Doesn't mean I can't do some good – maybe a hunger strike? Seems a little radical at the moment, though.' His attention drifts back to the poor, pathetic vegetables on the tray. They are a little brighter and cheerier as the orange and green color seems to pop into view. Steve shifts on the cot and repositions his shadow over the food tray obscuring the vivid color of the vegetables. 'Simply a trick of the light; I must be getting tired. Maybe they'll bust in here once I lie down and start to nod off? I bet they'll want me to say something to support the act. They're not above twisting words and facts to suit their ends. Maybe that's why no one has come by? They know I won't change my position. Still you'd think someone would try to talk to me?'

As if in answer to his own questions a voice breaks Steve's reverie. An impending sense of dread falls over Steve as he recognizes that cold malicious gloating voice which haunts him in his nightmares. In the nights that Steve Rogers sleeps neither easily nor soundly despite the weariness of the Civil War weighing upon him, he dreams of parachuting into dark forests, charging over body strewn beaches and the weary march through blizzards in the Alps. In his darker dreams, he'd feel the kick of steel toed boots cracking into his ribs; he'd see body upon body fall before the onslaught to take the hill; he'd taste the blood in his mouth as he failed to deflect a blow; he'd smell the stench of war as shells filled the air; and the sound that would fill his ears would be, "You've failed yet again, Herr Rogers." Surrender being the last back-up plan that he'd envisioned when this started and when he'd given a thought to it he would hear a dark laugh warped with pure evil. It's here, now, in his cell. "Ja, so vhat are you in here for?" Steve freezes at the sound and slowly looks toward the source, "Good afternoon, Herr Rogers." Steve slightly turns his head so he can fully take in the figure that's sitting on the other end of his bunk. Steve blinks a couple of times. When the figure still remains sitting there, Steve takes a brief look at the cell door then focuses back on the figure. 'Impossible!'

Deciding to ignore the visitor in his cell, Steve Rogers returns his attention to the food tray on the floor. He closes his eyes and clenches his fists in frustration. 'I'm loosing it. That can't be the Red Skull. I'm in a cell on the Helicarrier by myself. There's no one else in this room. He's not real. Something in the air in here? Could be the effects of some kind of interrogation drug?' Steve Rogers rubs his eyes tiredly. 'Would explain why no one is in the hall. Is nothing beneath them?'

Red Skull shifts a little on the bunk to face his arch-foil. He wants Steve Rogers to see his malicious snarl of triumph as it courses across his uneven features. Steve Rogers is not cooperating as his attention is fixed elsewhere. Angrily Red Skull hits his fist on the bunk's mattress sending a vibration through the thin pad and shaky bunk frame. With cold venomous words he hisses, "Ja, so you feel dat, mein Herr. I'm not some hallucination of your pathetic American brain. I am Sie, Red Skull! I vill not be ignored, Herr Rogers."

Steve feeling the bunk shake; abruptly stands and braces himself against the side wall. The barren dingy surface offers little comfort as he rests his forehead briefly against the cool metal to gather his wits. 'Got to keep it together, here. Please dear, Lord. It's not real. He's not here.' He blinks a couple of times as he takes in the broad red and gold stripe wall color running horizontally along the wall. 'That's not right,' he thinks as he rubs one of his hands back and forth over the wall. He takes a half-step away and begins tracing the line between the stripes towards the far wall of the cell. 'This is some kind of trick. '

Red Skull stands up and raises his voice. "You vill not turn your back to me, Rogers!"

Steve sucks in his lower lip with resolute determination. 'Not listening. Can't afford to listen to him.' He sets his jaw and intently gazes along the wall for a sign or cause of the sudden change in the appearance and contents of the room. 'Maybe I can block the vent through which they're pumping in the drug.' The formerly beige ceiling transforms itself into a less than pleasant tint of puce, which begins to slowly melt down the walls in globs of reddish goo. The pulsing, oozing movement reminds Steve of lab experiments in bygone days which went very, very wrong. Experimentally Rogers reaches up to an area that appears to be melting. The wall remains smooth and flat as his finger traces a line along its joint to the ceiling. 'Still feels normal. Maybe the drug's effect won't fully take?'

Without warning the Red Skull's boots thump loudly across the cell floor. Steve can hear them getting closer and he tenses, automatically readying himself for self defense. The Red Skull again makes a fist and slams it loudly into the cell wall, inches away from Steve's ear and Steve fights the urge to bolt away from or turn on the gruesome apparition. Instead, beads of sweat begin to form and trickle down the back of his neck as he tenses at the sudden sound.

With a swagger in his step the Red Skull leans in and continues his speech, "Zhowing your back? I know Sie can hear me. It would be a zhame that I would be denied the pleasure of looking upon your face, zhould I decide to kill you where you ztand."

Only two more steps and Steve will reach the corner of the room. Given the choice of being painted completely into a corner or two steps away from it, Steve would rather stand his ground and so his attention returns to the gruesome figure that seems to be almost a mirror image of his own. As he turns his head, he sees the Red Skull standing right there, uncomfortably close. Steve straightens his shoulders. "So if you're not a delirium, what are you?"

"Ja, dat is a good question," the Red Skull walks around Steve and leans against the wall and rubs his chin thoughtfully as if trying to explain gravity to one of his dispensable minions. "I didn't expect you to be so velcoming - I came here to offer you a bargin, Rogers."

Rogers puffs out his chest and snarls back, "No deals. You aren't welcome and that doesn't explain anything, you psychotic. . ."

The Red Skull cuts him off with cackling laugh, "Ja well, I have da cosmic cube and you don't. And as much as I'd like for you to be here with me, languishing in my very special accommodations; you're here among your friends in this cozy little cell. My heart is almost varmed –"

"You heartless fiend!" Rogers reaches for back of the desk chair. "You're telling me you have something like that and instead wrecking havoc or conquering the world outright; you're here gloating? That's um –" He drags the chair closer to lean upon. "— an almost pitiable excuse for someone with so much raw power. I suppose after this you'll go kick over an ant hill or something?"

"Ja, I have my regrets. Ve all do, Rogers. I'm making the most of my opportunity. Trust me I'm using its raw power at the moment and vhile you're here with your friends you won't be able to ztop me, not this time. Not without a deal."

"Not this time," Steve mimics. "You're like an old broken record, Skull. I wish my hallucinations were more creative."

"NO, no, no, Herr Rogers. I'm real. I'm right here. You could ztop me now; if you weren't so veak." Red Skull launches a kick at Captain America. "See?" He taunts maniacally.

Reflexively, the chair is brought up to block the blow. Steve springs back. The kick falls short. Steve falls into a crouch with the chair firmly in hand. Red Skull says, "Good! Now you try."

Resolutely Steve stands his ground and mutters, "You could actually be a guard."

"Ja or I could be one of your vonderful friends, mein Herr. I could be your dear, dear friend who has imprisoned you." As if to prove his point, Red Skull kicks at the chair catching one of the legs. The leg snaps off and clatters to the floor. The chair twists in Steve's grasp. The plastic digs into Steve's hand cutting it.

The sting quickly blossoms into a cascade of fire which shoots up his arm. With gruff determination he chokes back a groan as he roughly exhales out his nose. Steve lets out a humorless chuckle, "You could. Try that little trick again and see what happens, mein Kumpel."

"Oh ja at last ve do agree on zomething. Ja, if I was your friend, I could invite you over to my lair. You, my henchmen, hirelings and minions could all have a great big get together. There would be beer, bratwurst and ve could burn a few flags for old time's zake, before we zet the world on fire. Fun, no?"

Steve adjusts his grip on the chair. "Trying to get under my skin with the 'flag burning' comment? Try again, Mister."

The Red Skull shrugs, "In this vide, vide, vorld of diversity vhy vould I limit myself to only the American flag, Herr Rogers? To show you how good a friend I could be, I'll embrace the veak American concept of inclusivity. How about each flag from the U.N. member nations?"

"No."

"Don't be ridiculous! I'm not here to invite you to a cook out. Put the chair down and we can discuss this like civilized people."

"No."

The Red Skull snaps his fingers and the chair falls from Steve Roger's grasp like a piece of metal on a hot summer's day.

"How did --"

"The Cube. Now, listen to vhat I have to zay."

"No."

"I'm offering you a chance. Could you at least think about it?"

"There's not anything to think about. I'm comfortable here."

The Red Skull huffs and snorts in disbelief. "Liar!" He stomps over and shakes an accusing finger at Captain America. "You're not! You're miserable. You're betrayed! And soon you'll be dead, Herr Rogers!"

Steve forces optimism into his voice, "Best news I've heard all day, next to you ranting about how I can't possibly stop you this time. You're all talk." Steve gives the apparition an appraising look. "Whatever you are, you need to be on your way."

"No. I need to be no place other than here. I can break you out of this feeble prison, Rogers. It vould hardly take a thought. You could go back out there to fight the good fight."

Steve Rogers can't help but do a double take, "Look I know things, especially now, are not what they seem." He shakes his head skeptically. "The good fight? Are telling me you've changed your colors?"

"Vell –" The Red Skull gestures wildly, "Once this registration conflict is resolved, you know vhat vill happen? Using those of us with exceptional abilities for their own ends – it vill be the next 'arms race'. Your government and other governments vill begin to hunt down other individuals of interest, like myself, you, others –"

"That particular scenario is already coming to fruition. Somehow, you're involved in all this. You're a criminal and you're supposed to be hunted down."

Red Skull argues vehemently, "You have broken your nation's laws. You have disobeyed your orders. There is no difference now between us."

Steve bellows, "There's a great deal of differences between us."

"You stay here. You die. Let me show you." Dramatically, Red Skull waives one of his hands and points towards the floor. Unbidden, Steve's eyes follow the gnarled finger.

The floor beneath Steve's feet changes into a clear sheet of Plexiglas. Steve absorbs the sight before him as he is looking down into a room. 'It's Tony. Oh my God!' Tony is sitting before Steve's lifeless body as it lies deathly still on a dark cement slab with the shield reverently placed across the torso. Tony's head is hung low and he's holding the Iron Man helm in his hands. The scene is a snap shot frozen in time. Despite the chill in the pit of his stomach, Steve glares up at the Red Skull. "Supposing you actually had the cube, you wouldn't need cheap tricks like this."

Once again the gleeful gleaming gloat returns to the face of the Red Skull, "I do have the cube and you vill play a part in my drama, Steve Rogers. I do this on a vhim. It amuses me to force you to choose."

"Break out of here – with you or die? That's it?" Steve crunches his knuckles and exclaims, "Have you got rocks in your head?! After all these years, that's the most compelling argument you can make? We'll just traipse out of here? You want me to go with you, trust you and then what?" Steve pauses briefly to take in the guileless vestige of the Red Skull. Seeing no further assurances in the soulless black eyes, Steve shakes his head, "No, thank you."

Refusing to be so easily snubbed, the Red Skull crosses his arms. "I'm zerious, Herr Rogers."

"I can tell." Steve takes a step forward with each word forcing the Red Skull to make a counter-step backwards circling in the small cell. "It's madness. It's chaos. I'm not going to be a part of that. It wouldn't be right."

"You vish to ztay here with your friends, your so called buddies," the Red Skull sneers. "How do you plan to zave the vorld from me, in here?"

Steve huffs, "My friends are my friends. Doesn't mean we don't disagree. We do. I'm not afraid to face the consequences of my actions. Can you say the same?"

"Consequences." Red Skull draws the word out and smacks his lips and then cackles, "Yes, indeed – consequences. You're an imbecile, Rogers. I expected no less. Forget our little talk and enjoy the misery of you cell. I know I vill." With a sweeping leap, the Red Skull dodges around Steve Rogers and cascades off the bunk to land smartly by the cell door.

Steve spins around, "You're kidding me. You can't just walk out of here."

The Red Skull smiles. "I can. I vill."

Steve grimaces, "You won't. They'll know you were here." Steve sets himself to spring upon the Red Skull. "I'll see to it that you'll get your due."

The Red Skull gives a royal wave of his hand, "Ta-ta, Rogers. They von't know and neither vill you. Enjoy your ztay."

The cold grey bars hold steady as Steve Rogers staggers and catches himself against the cell door. He blinks twice and the sad sight of the cold peas and carrots by his feet comes back into focus. 'I don't remember getting up,' he thinks as he sits back on the cot. The sickly green color of the peas disgusts him as his vision is unwillingly filled again by their presence. He feels like yelling at the poor overcooked vegetables, as if it is their fault that their taste was unappealing. It is not as if they were to blame for the state of the world. 'The world is falling apart . . . how did this happen? Why did this happen? I need answers.'

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: The brilliant Jazzypom.
> 
> I think I learned more going through the beta process with Jazzy, than any composition class I took in college. And I think it shows in this fic, which went from *meh* (crack idea: How do you invite your Arch-Nemesis to a BBQ?) to one with impact. I am not asking you to be filled with sqee after reading this, merely to have a very decisive opinion about it. If you did, then I feel I succeeded.


End file.
